Strictly Pathological
by ARoseWithThorns
Summary: One-shot. Post-Reichenbach. "For the sake of law and order, I suggest you refrain from any attempts at a future relationship, Molly."  Let's dissect what he meant by that, shall we?  Just a fluffy jealousy piece.  Rated for medical terminology light lang.


**A/N: This is just a fun one-shot, completely unrelated to my other story – just a fun filler to try and get out of my Sherlockian phase that I'm going through right now. Enjoy.**

Mrs. Urry's cadaver is really what started the whole mess. Well, maybe it had been when Sherlock had told her she "should refrain from any attempts at future relationships for the sake of law and order." Come to think of it, it was probably when she'd first encountered Sherlock altogether. At any rate, it had been about three months after everything got sorted with the Reichenbach incident, and things were slowly getting back to what settled for normal in Molly Hooper's life. She had harbored Sherlock Holmes while he cleaned up and fixed the mess created by Jim Moriarty, and watched as he pursued the clearing of his good name until he was, quite literally, brought back to life. When in hiding, they tiptoed around each other in an awkward dance of courtesy and sexual tension; mostly on her part, but Sherlock adopted an odd kind of fondness towards her after that, which made her less nervous around him.

Since Dr. Watson discovered that Sherlock was indeed alive, he had been as loyal as a Golden Retriever, constantly seen in the company of his kingpin. She understood the camaraderie that passed between them, and was glad that they had rekindled their friendship. Sherlock needed friends in his life to help keep him balanced, regardless of what he claimed. She knew him almost better than she knew herself.

Despite the sort of polite friendliness between her and Sherlock, he seemed to come into the morgue more and more frequently; she suspected him of doing so just so he could work in silence near her – it was difficult to describe it should anyone ask her, but there was a nicety to working in silence together with him that she couldn't have with anyone else.

So it was when she was frowning at the lesion protruding from Mrs. Urry's cold abdomen that she thus found herself; John stood behind Sherlock, texting his date for that night, and Sherlock seemed to be studying cultures… for what reason she was uncertain, as she knew for a fact he didn't have a case, but she stopped asking why since he had come back to life; she was at his utter disposal, and he knew it.

The damned lesion was the problem. 89-year-old Mrs. Urry had passed away alone in her flat due to natural causes originally, but she'd spotted a large lesion near the woman's appendix that warranted further investigation. She pulled her mask down to her chin, and dialed the interoffice number she'd hastily scribbled on a post-it note. A young female secretary answered.

"Dr. Randolph's office."

"Hello, erm, Gemma, this is Dr. Molly Hooper from the morgue, has Dr. Randolph had a chance to study the specimen I sent him?"

"Yes, Dr. Hooper, he's actually on his way down to discuss it with-"

The doors to the morgue swung open, and both John and Sherlock mirrored Molly as they looked in the direction of the tall man who entered. She said a polite goodbye to the secretary and set the phone down off kilter from the receiver, distracted at Dr. Randolph. He was beyond handsome, that much was evident. Short, wavy russet-coloured hair complimented a very pronounced looking face; he had dark brown eyes and a very strong jawline, not unlike Sherlock's. He advanced into the lab with his hand extended towards Sherlock, white lab coat billowing behind him.

"Dr. Hooper," he greeted in a deep, melodious voice, "Jeremy Randolph. Can I just say what a pleasure it is to finally make your acquaintance; I read your published articles on post-mortem myelodysplasia and immunofluorescence, and I have to tell you, I found them absolutely fascinating. Let me just say that-"

Sherlock looked amused as he cut the man off, but not too harshly. "You may want to direct your platitudes of professional admiration to Dr. Hooper. Over there," he pointed towards Molly, and she gave a little wave that somehow merited a giggle as she did so, and she inwardly cursed her cheerfulness that sometimes came across as ditzy to those who didn't know her. Dr. Randolph didn't seem to mind, though, he did a double take and appraised her, his eyes glancing lightning-quick but still doing so down her body and up again.

"Oh. Oh my, I'm sorry. _You're_ Dr. Hooper? Dr. M. Hooper?"

Molly shook his hand, and noticed how warm and large it was as it enveloped her own. She could feel Sherlock's eyes watching her like a hawk. She glanced at him from her peripheral vision, sending out a silent plea. _Please behave._ "Just Molly, thank you for coming down, Dr. Randolph. This is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson," she quickly added. He nodded absentmindedly to the two men, but didn't seem the least bit interested in them as he stared at her, mostly at her hair, which she wore in a long French braid down her back today. She prayed to God she wasn't blushing, but she knew she was. "Erm, Mrs. Urry is just over here, actually. Did you find anything significant in the specimen I sent up?" She asked, walking over to peel back the sheet covering the body.

"Just Jeremy, please Molly," he said kindly, pulling on some latex gloves. He handed her the small jar with formalin fluid and the skin fragment she'd sent up, before softly prodding the abdomen of the cadaver with two fingers. "I believe it's a coupling of severe acute gastritis and from the skin fragment, a very delicate cyst lining the uterine wall that traveled upwards, my estimate is that the cholelithiasis and elevated liver enzymes were what actually killed her. She was left undiagnosed and untreated for far too long, and they manifested. It's in my report."

"Oh, I agree. Thank god, I've wanted to get this sorted," Molly said, studying the jar after she pulled her mask back on. "You are a lifesaver, Jeremy, really." She heard Sherlock shift in his chair, and chose to ignore him.

Jeremy smiled warmly, and his dark eyes lit up. "Well, it's my absolute pleasure to work with such an accomplished fellow pathologist, not to mention a stunning one at that. Consider it my honor, truly. We'll get this over and done with so you can get back to your family in time for dinner tonight, eh?"

Molly glanced at her feet, hating that she was blushing. "No.. erm, family, I'm afraid, so we're all right, there."

A silence passed between them as she laid her instruments out for him.

"Other half, perhaps?" he asked lightly, a teasing lilt to his voice.

A low rumble that sounded like quiet thunder alighted from the other side of the room, and John looked up from his texting, his eyebrows screwed up as he studied Sherlock, who was staring endlessly into a microscope. "My God, did you just _growl_?"

Sherlock loudly cleared his throat. "Phlegm. Ignore it."

Molly looked at Jeremy, who made a funny, _that was weird_ face. She giggled. "I think it's safe to say I don't mind staying at all past my shift as there's no one waiting for me but an overfed cat. Shall we?" she smiled into her mask, nodding down to Mrs. Urry.

"Love to," he inclined his head towards her. "There was actually a small discrepancy in the size of the specimen you sent up, though," he continued, securing a mask in place. "My techs couldn't decide on the diameter. Can you look at the section you cut out and tell me what you think? I measured 0.7 centimeters to 0.8, myself."

She leaned closer to the opening of skin and stared at it. "Hm. It looks more like 0.7. Let me be sure, though." After taking measurements, she stood up, feeling flushed all of a sudden as he bore his full gaze at her; he was a gorgeous man, and the look he gave her was flattering, but not in the leering sense that LeStrade often did whenever he paid the morgue a visit – it was a "let me take you to dinner, I'm a decent guy" kind of look. She had the delicious desire to play this up for all that it was worth in Sherlock's presence, even if this man never gave her the time of day again.

"Forgive me… Molly, I know this is neither the time nor place for it, but you have very nice eyes. Very soulful and lovely."

She bit her lip, daring herself to flirt a little. "Dr. Randolph, are you… seriously _hitting on me_ over the corpse of a dead woman?"

He raised an elegant dark eyebrow. "In our profession, is that any surprise?"

"Oh, enough of this!" She heard Sherlock bark ten feet away. She heard his stool scrape the lineoleum, and in a flash he was by her side, glaring daggers at Jeremy.

"Oh no," Molly whispered. Since her fiasco with being played like Sherlock's violin by Jim Moriarty, and then with Sherlock virtually telling her she wasn't allowed to date anyone, that unspoken line between them had been sizzling and waiting to erupt. She feared the worst, especially in front of a colleague.

She expected a dissection of Jeremy's attire and possible sexual orientation, a verbal dump of his possible motives, but not what came out of Sherlock's mouth next. "I can't believe you don't know who I am," he uttered slowly.

"Pardon?" The two men were identical in height as well as in how they carried themselves.

"Sherlock Holmes. You've honestly never heard of me."

Jeremy took in the detective, and narrowed his eyes a little. "Sorry, no. I make it a point not to read any other news than pertains to my profession. Are you some sort of celebrity?"

Sherlock huffed, and looked at Molly. "He's a pathological liar, notice how his eyes averted to the side and the nervous tapping of his left hand, particularly the tan line around the missing wedding ring?" He looked back at Jeremy, who was outraged.

"Do you have some sort of social disability that compels you to be rude to strangers?" he demanded. Molly pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Not that I've been diagnosed with," Sherlock replied directly. "But where her welfare is concerned I do indeed consider it my responsibility to warn against the problematic potential of future suitors."

"Sherlock," John muttered, trying to pry him away. Jeremy raised his eyebrows, looking between the two men.

"Wait a moment. Forgive me, but I assumed coming in here that you two-"

"We're not gay!" they chorused, and John deliberately sidestepped away, looking to his phone for rescue.

"I have to call my date… excuse me," John stammered, beating a hasty retreat.

"Sherlock," Molly began, touching his arm to get him to stop.

He looked down at her, not bothered in the least by the hand on his arm, but he glared vehemently at the other man. "Now, in the best interest of diplomacy, I suggest you complete your business and move on elsewhere, unless you want your neglected wife to receive a very disturbing phone call later today."

Jeremy's mouth fell open, and he ripped off his mask, throwing it down on the nearby silver tray. "I'm done here anyway, best of luck to you, Molly. I'll have Gemma bring up the report. . . sod off," he snarled at Sherlock as he passed.

"Lovely to meet you, too. All the best!" Sherlock called as the other man stormed out of the room.

Molly put her hands on her hips, frowning at Sherlock. "Was that absolutely necessary?"

Sherlock said nothing, collecting his coat and fixing his gloves on. "Let's just say, I always protect what's mine," he said pointedly. Fixing her with an intentional glare, he bowed to her and left the room.


End file.
